Angel One: Covert Ops
by Moguler
Summary: A USA Raptor pilot has his life and career shaken after an attack on the USA by the GLA. Complete.
1. Introduction

Angel One: Covert Ops

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Introduction/Foreword**

Please do note that I do not own Command & Conquer Generals or Command & Conquer Generals: Zero Hour, which this fanfic is based around, although I do own a several copies of the game.

I would like to thank Westwood studios for starting one of the best game series ever, and EA for creating a great Command & Conquer game.

Thanks also to a friend of mine, who has played with me for some time now…

Not all the designation numbers and names are actual names or designations. I will list them here as they appear in the storyline.

The name "GLA" will occur many times. This stands for Global Liberation Army, and for those who don't know what that is, play the game or Google it.

Major General Jack Granger is an "actual" General in Zero Hour, known mostly as the "air-force general"

Please do R&R. Thanks

Fictional names/designations:

The An-70 is real, but the modifications I made to it in the story are purely fictional.

CH-47ACT "Advanced Combat Transport" (Combat Chinook)-Fictional derivative of CH-47D Chinook, Boeing

PADS (Point lAser Defense System)-Fictional short-form of the Point Laser Defense System in the game.

RQ-12C (Battle Drone)-Fictional designation number for CnC General's "Battle Drone"

Air Force Army-Fictional name for the army that General Jack Granger commands in the game

RAH-66B "Stealth Commanche", (Commanche)-Fictional derivative of the discontinued RAH-66 Commanche project/Fictional designation for Zero Hour's Stealth Upgraded Commanches

F-22A(2) "King Raptor" (King Raptor)-Fictional derivative of the F-22A Raptor/Fictional designation for Zero Hour's King Raptor

BERP (Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process)-Derived from Dale Brown's "Tin Men" armor, in his Patrick McLanahan novels

RQ-11B "Watcher" (Scout Drone)-Fictional designation for General's Scout Drone upgrade.

Patriot-C Missile Systems-Fictional name for General's "Patriot Missiles"

Air Force Army Engineering Corps Medusa Railgun Mk. III-Fictional name for a semi-fictional weapon

(Please note: "Fictional" means nonexistent in either the game or in real life.)


	2. Chapter 1

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter One**

* * *

_0530 Hrs, Hawaii  
Air Force Base four-four  
Officer's quarters_

"Buzz… buzz… buzz… bu…"

_"Slam!"_

Lt. George Cage awoke with his fist on his alarm clock. Groaning, he swung his legs off his bed and started to dress. Suddenly, the alarm klaxon sounded. He paused for a moment to listen to the message being sounded.

"All fighter units, scramble immediately, this is not a drill. Repeat, all fighter units, scramble immediately, this is not a drill. Repeat, this is _not_ a drill."

"On my birthday, of all days." George muttered under his breath. Catching his leg in his flight suit, he swore. Despite several hiccups, he was out of the room in less than five minutes. Grabbing his helmet from a nearby shelf, he ran out to the tarmac. There, two of the four F-22A Raptors stationed at this particular airforce command center were already taxiing for the runway.

Scanning the horizon, he picked out multiple bright specks headed toward them. Twin engined aircraft, possibly high-speed tactical bombers. The silhouettes looked like nothing American or Chinese. The fact that they were flying so high, instead of hugging the ground, as standard military doctrine would have them do, so as to avoid being picked up by radar, indicated inexperienced pilots, or worse, an extremely large force.

"Strange" George muttered, running towards his Raptor, which was being prepped by the mechanics already. Once strapped in, he filled in his checklists rapidly, then began to taxi out.

"Alpha, this is Angel One, requesting clearance to take off."

"Angel One, Alpha. Cleared to take off."

"Roger. What's the threat?"

"Bogeys. From the east, but I think you knew that already."

"Yep. Sure did. What on earth are those aircraft?"

"Can't tell. Unidentifiable as of yet. Not responding on any radio bands either."

"Roger. Cleared to engage?"

"Cleared. Watch out for other Raptors. We had 3 full bases scramble."

"Sounds fun. Angel One out."

George pulled on his stick, feeling the familiar press of the 3G take off against his body. Once at ten thousand feet, he leveled out and headed toward where the threats were last seen. His Raptor, the best air dominance fighter that was available on the market anywhere now, quickly covered the space between the Air Base and the bogeys. He climbed another four thousand feet, placing him about three thousand above the bogeys. Circling around once past them, he closed in for an identification. He gasped into his oxygen mask as he saw the aircraft.

They resembled Russian An-70 wide-body transport/freighters in the fuselage, but there the resemblance ended. Instead of four turboprops there were two large jet engines fused into the fuselage, giving them a somewhat "sleek" appearance, and the wings were tapered back at a ridiculous angle, almost like America's top-secret Aurora hypersonic bomber. But even those weren't as shocking as the gold and green GLA insignia and colors painted boldly on the wings.

George armed an AIM-120C AMRAAM (Advanced Medium Range Air to Air Missile) and launched it at the big lumbering thing. He didn't know what to call it. The explosion from the missile impact shook him considerably, but even that didn't prepare him for the sudden blaring in his ears and the red lights flashing all over his HUD. He bit his lip, struggling to keep his fighter airborne. Another explosion to the right, and he saw another Raptor start to spiral towards the earth. A parachute opened, up soon after that, and George returned his attention to keeping his fighter steady. He thumbed on his radio and began shouting in.

"This is Angel One, I've been hit! Repeat, this is Angel One, I've been hit!"

"Angel One, this is Rapier One. What is your current position?"

"East of the airbase! The bogeys are GLA flying suicide bombs!"

"Get your missiles in the air, Angel One. We read you as critical and your missiles might explode any moment now."

"Roger that."

George picked out four separate targets some distance away, then fired all four missiles. He shut off the weapons systems immediately after that. On thing the USA pilots had that most others didn't-a fire-and-forget system that didn't fail very often. He thumbed his radio again, as he watched his missiles hit home.

"Angel One here. Missiles clear."

"Roger, Angel One. We'll take it from here."

"Any other casualties?"

"Sniper Two bailed out, and AFB four-four was hit pretty badly, but apart from that…"

The pilot trailed off. George sighed and was about to respond when the other pilot came back on the radio.

"That's your landing area…"

The pilot swore. "It just exploded."

"Rapier One, Angel One here. I'm going to bail out."

"_No!_ You're flying a one-hundred-and-fifty-million dollar fighter! Land at four-six!"

"Too far. I'm leaking fuel at forty gallons a minute."

The pilot swore again.

"Good hunting, Rapier One."

"See you around, Angel One."

George pulled his eject lever and punched straight out of the cockpit, blacking out from the pressure temporally. He awoke just in time to see his Raptor plow into the sea, exploding as it did so. Two Raptors down in one day, over their own territory, and not a single enemy fighter in the sky. This was not the USAF's best day.

A fighter on average took between ten to fifteen weeks to build, and during that time, he would be pretty much idle. Which didn't fit with his character one bit.

* * *

_1524 Hrs, Hawaii  
Hawton Offensive Command and Control Systems Center  
Staff Command Room_

"Sir, we staved off most of the attack, except for a single Air Force Base and two Raptors, which, unfortunately, were hit by the explosions from the suicide aircraft."

"Alright. Start rebuilding immediately. I want a fighter patrol over that area twenty-four/seven."

"Yes, sir."

'Oh, and Eva?"

"Sir?"

"Get the pilots into Iran ASAP. I want two Paladins and tank squads, excluding drivers, ready for them."

"Yes, sir. Sir, the Paladin isn't exactly… Pilot friendly."

"_I KNOW!_ Brief them on the way."

"Yes sir."

"Out."

Brigadier General John Carter stood up from his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. One Air Force Base. That was one billion dollars, down the drain, plus, they were blind in that area until they could get Avengers to the area.

He knew two "Paladin" tanks was a lot for General Jack Granger, also known as the "Air-Force General." Although the USA relied heavily on its air force as it was, this particular Major General used his budget to build better aircraft and air force bases, so forfeiting armor, of which the US had a decidedly superior force with their Crusader MBTs and Paladin "experimental" tanks.

Although the Paladin had initially entered service as a series of prototypes, they had fast become the US Army's favorite tank, due especially to their Laser Defense System, which protected them from most light missile attacks.

John hoped that in return, Granger would send over a King Raptor or two. The King Raptors were even deadlier in the air than the A model Raptors. These were modified versions that Granger had dug into his tank budget for. Equipped with the Point Laser Defense System, or PADS, for short, they could shoot down almost all the missiles fired at them. They were AIM-120D ready, and were definitely far hardier.

John hesitated for a moment, then picked up the phone.

* * *

_2135 Hrs, Hawaii  
Hawaiian eastern coast_

George sat shivering on the beach, as the wind swept at him, adding a wind chill factor and making him even colder than he would have been otherwise. He had landed just barely in the sea, and got soaked only a meter or two from the shore. He had pulled out of the water and dried off quickly, now sitting on the beach with his signal flare, waiting to be picked up.

Just as he was about to doze off, a sudden sound awoke him. He turned around, startled. Two headlights were approaching him, and they dimmed as the driver noticed him. The vehicle stopped, and then George recognized it as a US Army Humvee. A Special Forces Ranger stepped out, approaching him.

"Sir? We've come to pick you up sir."

George swore under his breath.

"Well it's about time."

"Sorry about the delay, sir. There was something about bringing you straight there."

"There? Where?"

"Iran, sir. You've been re-posted."

George swore again, louder this time.

"General's orders, sir. These are you papers."

George accepted the sheets of paper the Ranger was holding out wordlessly and nearly choked as he read. He had been promoted, not just once, to Captain, but all the way to Major. The next sheet of paper stated his orders, a posting to Iran, with Major General Jack Granger.

"Is this for real?"

"Yes sir, very much for real, sir."

"I can't believe it… It's a dream come true."

"Sir?"

"I've always wanted to serve with Granger. Maybe even in a King Raptor…"

"Very good, sir. I'm sure we'll have time for that."

The loud "thubba-thubba" of a twin-turboshaft helicopter grew louder as a Chinook materialized from the dark. It wasn't the standard US CH-47D. This was a CH-47ACT (Advanced Combat Transport) "Combat Chinook", from the Air Force General's arsenal.

The Chinook landed, and another Ranger stepped out. The first Ranger was already clearing George's signal flare. The second Ranger nodded to George, then yelled, "Get inside!"

George climbed into the helicopter, almost in a daze. There was a huge tank inside, most likely the Paladin tank, with a modified Air Force insignia on it. George immediately recognized it as the Air Force General's personal logo.

The Chinook began to take off, and then George saw the fuel tanks occupying enough space for a Humvee.

"What are those for?" He asked the Ranger, sitting in one of the seats nearby.

"Fuel tanks."

"No, I meant. What's the fuel for?"

"The Chinook can't fly the Pacific at one go on its usual fuel allotment, can in?"

"We're going direct?"

"Yep. Gonna be a blast."

George stared out of the window and imagined himself in a King Raptor, almost invulnerable to anything.

* * *

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 2

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

_0500 Hrs, Iran  
Over an undisclosed location_

"Sir? Wake up, sir."

"It's five in the morning, Ranger…"

"Yes sir, but we've arrived. Sir."

George got off his seat groggily and rubbed his eyes. The helicopter bumped slightly as it touched down on the landing pad. The huge door at the back of the Chinook slid open, and the Paladin inside kicked into reverse. George stepped out of the Helicopter, squinting in the light the Chinook's door lamp projected. 

He yawned, stretching as he looked around. Shortly, a second Chinook joined them. This too was one of the Air Force General's "Combat Chinooks." The door slid open silently and another Paladin rolled out. George finally came to full awareness of his surroundings, as the Ranger handed him a radio headset and stepped back into the Chinook.

George put on the headset, pressing the "on" button as he did so. It was then that he heard a soft "thubba-thubba" despite the fact that both Chinooks were absolutely still. He jumped as a flight of four Commanches appeared, almost silent and close to invisible against the dark night. 

Another asset General Granger had were his stealth Commanches. While ordinary Commanches were deadly CAS helicopters and could pretty much fly through base defenses without being noticed, the Air Force General added the low-radar-observability function to his attack helicopters to enable even more silent intrusions into any enemy base. While low armor tended to be the Commanche's weakness, Stealth and attack power was its asset, making it good for quick strikes against vital installations.

George glanced at the Paladins, which were now completely still. He clicked his radio, then waited. A cheerful voice came onto the radio. "King Raptor here. I'm your escort to the base." George, slightly confused, hit his mic button, and spoke. "Sorry, but where's the base?"

He heard the roar of twin turbofans somewhere way above, and glanced up, seeing the shape of a Raptor in wide orbit above his location.

"North."

"Distance?"

"Ranging between, say 10 to 11 klicks?"

"Uh-uh. Blackout, man."

"You had any experience in the Raptor?"

"Yep. Hawaiian ANG."

"Heard your place got hit."

"Quite bad. That's why I got posted here."

"Driving a tank, huh?"

George went silent. He fished for his papers in his flight suit, found them, and glanced quickly through them. Behind the two sheets of paper were orders to take command of a Paladin, and because of his rank, he would be "squadron commander" not that there was much of a squadron anyway. The last few pages were detailed instructions on how to "drive" the tank. 

"You there, jock?"

"Name's George. Didn't expect to be posted to a Paladin."

"I didn't believe my ears either, but there you are."

"I'll get back to you. Stay in orbit over us, will you?"

"Roger that."

"Thanks, out."

George swept his free hand through his hair, sighing. He walked toward "his" Paladin, watching as the pilot of the other was handed his radio set and the Ranger disappeared into the Chinook. Soon after, both Chinooks left.

"So. Didn't read your orders?" A woman's voice sounded from above the tank. George's head snapped around. "Were you listening?"

"Heard every single word of it."

She was short. Perfect for a tank crewmember. Strange, though, that she wore Air Force fatigues. Probably an ex-pilot or crewmember.

"Is there an autopilot function on this thing?" George squinted, looking over his new vehicle. It was still shiny, polished straight from the production lines, most likely a Hawaiian war factory.

"Yep. Our co-ordinates are in already. Should be a breeze."

"Okay… Is this the first time you're pulling tank duty?"

"Yep. First land vehicle was the Avenger."

"Cool. You ever fly?"

"Some time ago. Aurora."

"Sweet. What happened?"

"Shot down. Some GLA Stinger site our Stealths missed."

" I see… I pity the Stealth pilots."

"Yep. They were hit the hardest."

"Okay. I'm Major George Cage. Ex-Raptor, as you probably already know."

"Lieutenant Amelia Isard."

"Interesting name."

When the lieutenant didn't reply, George climbed into the tank with some difficulty, and was soon introduced to the rest of the crew, and of course, his seat as the pilot. Auroras were mostly autopiloted, requiring only precision firing by a human bombardier. As a result, most Aurora pilots barely knew how to fly a plane. They could fire on target, though-chillingly accurately on target. It didn't take a genius to figure Amelia's role in the Paladin.

George switched on the autopilot, then wasted no time in getting acquainted with the Paladin's controls as he read through the brief manual. About halfway through their journey, he finally shut off the autopilot and took manual control of the tank, as Amelia watched in faint amusement. The rest of the crew was either "slacking off" or sleeping, so it was just the two of them.

"Tank, this is King Raptor. I'm going to head back fast to refuel then pop back. Okay with you?" The radio sounded in George's ear.

"Fine with me. Doesn't look like anything's going to happen."

"Roger. Out."

"Nothing apart from you crashing a multi-million dollar tank?" Amelia asked. George grunted in reply, concentrating on driving the tank.

"NavCom says there's a hilly area up ahead, driver." George grunted again. The result of a super-modern arsenal was a tank that drove completely on computers. As of such, George's fingers had to fly fast and hard over the control panel in front of him. The screen scrolled down with simply text, telling him of what the tank's radar was picking up. "Could do with a few images." He muttered, entering in another quick change in course to avoid colliding with a rock.

"Let the computer take it, driver. You can take the tank in battle." Amelia sounded rather amused now. "I need the practice." The captain laughed at his statement, then asked. "Are you married?" At this, George hit the autopilot key, spun around, and then said, "Used to be."

"What happened? Divorce?"

"No…" George shook his head slowly.

"She died?"

"Yep. Went down with the plane."

"What was she flying? Raptor?"

"Aurora." George closed his eyes and then turned back to the computer.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay… We're in the same tank anyway." George hit a few more keystrokes, sending the tank past the last hill and back onto autopilot.

"Hey, I think there's something coming up…"

"Armor?"

"Infantry. And wait… Technicals."

"Oh great. Just what we need."

Amelia laughed, then pulled a handle above George's head. All at once, a loud blaring sound filled the tank. George winced and keyed a few more strokes into the computer. The tank stopped. The crew came up, consisting of an armorer, who actually didn't do armor at all. He was responsible for reloading the main gun, which Amelia was in charge of firing. Behind was the "engine-man", responsible for making sure all vital systems performed properly during battle.

A small flying thing emerged from a compartment in the back of the tank. It's small in-body propeller spinning wildly to keep it airborne. The RQ-12C "Battle Drone" was the Armored divisions' favorite weapon. With it's light machine-gun, it could hit infantry from even greater distances than the tank could with it's own shells, and light vehicles were usually no problem for it. The Battle Drone, could, in addition, view any external damage to the tank with its on-board camera. Another bonus was that the C models had a fully automated "repair kit" on board, which could piece back together broken or damaged pieces of armor, though any proper repairs would have to be done at a war factory.

"All systems on the Battle Drone read clear."

"Roger. Gun is good to go."

"Engine clear."

Radio reports began streaming in from the other tank too, which previously had kept radio silence. "Battle Drones, away." George said, with some glee in his tone as his screen resolved itself into a camera image from the drone. The gun on the Battle Drone began firing, cutting down the GLA rebels like paper. The Technicals continued advancing, driving fast enough to avoid the relatively slow Battle Drone. Amelia smirked as she swiveled her cannon toward the oncoming Technicals, firing one shot per technical, while the armorer desperately reloaded.

The Technicals were the mainstay of GLA motorized forces, numbering even higher than the light Scorpion tanks that the GLA so loved. They were mostly aging pickups, mostly old Toyotas, with a single 15mm cannon mounted on a swivel platform in the truck bed. Technicals were fast and deadly, especially when they carried things apart from the cannon.

Amelia fired again, and another technical exploded. George popped the hatch and watched the battle first hand, breathing in the relatively fresh air, polluted with gunpowder and cannon smoke as it was. The other Paladin fired, and this time he got to watch as the pickup flew some distance, depositing its cargo along the way. George's eyes came close to popping out of their sockets as a number of red-and-green clad men dropped out of the Technical. "Fanatics… Suicide Bombers…" He thought, quickly sliding back into the tank and putting it in reverse.

He keyed his radio, about the contact the other Paladin, when he saw it go up in a plume of smoke, with a smoking shell and two men some distance away. Another smoking body lay on the wreckage of the other Paladin, black and charred. He keyed the engine up to one hundred percent output, watching as the two surviving crewmembers of the other tank we run over by the Technicals. He did a quick radar check, then switched his screen back to full color, letting the computer take the tank in reverse.

"Two left. They're closing fast."

Amelia grunted in reply, firing again. Another Technical exploded. She swiveled the cannon as the gun on the Technical began firing on the Paladin. Another shot, another explosion, then silence.

"That's four men." Amelia said, choking. George ran a hand through his hair, then keyed autopilot for the base, still some distance away. 

"Hey guys, I'm back."

"You're a bit too late."

"For what?"

"We lost a tank."

The pilot swore on the radio loudly.

"Nobody survived."

The pilot swore again.

"We're headed straight back now."

"Roger. I'll report the loss then talk to you again. Oh, and your designation is Angel One. I'm Hunter Three, on air radio."

"Angel One. That was my old call sign."

"Sweet. Hunter Three, out."

George sat back in the chair, listening to the engine as it hummed, pushing the tank along swiftly. Iran was going to be a very dangerous place…

* * *

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 3

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

_1530 Hrs, 2 days later, Iran  
In an undisclosed location_

George stared at his display screen, as the Paladin's satellite uplink began downloading co-ordinates and data from the Air Force Army Command Center. Two minutes later, he hit a key on his console, and their order streamed in.

His jaw dropped as he saw his latest set of orders. They were to attack a squad of three quad cannons in some unknown town a short distance away. Apparently the trucks were harassing their RAH-66B "Stealth Commanches" (modified RAH-66A Commanches) and no fixed wing aircraft were available to destroy them at present.

He entered the co-ordinates into the computer, letting the autopilot take them. As driver of the vehicle, he was also tank commander, and as of such, he was in charge of the every single Paladin tank in the entire Air Force Army. One.

"All right, crew. Our next target is…" He winced as he read out the next few words. "Three quad cannons." He finished, running a hand through his hair, as he was starting to do more often.

The crew didn't react at first, but quickly began to prepare the tank for battle, with the tank already in motion.

The anti-rocket laser that was mounted on most paladins had been replaced with the PADS that the Air Force Army was so famous for using in their aircraft, especially the F-22A(2) "King Raptor," resulting in an extremely powerful tank. In the two days the crew had spent loitering around the Air Force Army's numerous airfields, Air Force technicians had modified the Paladin extensively, making it even more lethal than the gigantic Overlord tanks the Chinese were so famous for using.

Another modification had been a TOW missile system, ordinarily mounted on Humvees alone, this particular piece of weaponry had been taken from off the shelf and mounted onto the side of the Paladin's turret. This, along with the Paladin's advanced systems, gave the TOW missiles unprecedented range and lethality.

The technicians had taken parts from Avengers, Sentry Drones, and even Microwave Tanks, which of course made the modifications extremely expensive; but then again, It was their _only_ tank. They had even taken a page from the USA anti-armor special forces, the Missile Defenders, and mounted a "pointer" laser on the turret, allowing the tank to fire more rapidly without having to re-aim every time.

George wondered if all these upgrades were going to be of any help in the upcoming battle, as he knew, quad cannons could fire surprisingly long distances, and PADS was going to be of no use against bullets. Jamming would not help either, as the quads were completely manual. Their Battle Drone was going to be quite ineffective, too, as quad cannons were known to be extremely effective anti-aircraft artillery.

Soon, the Quad Cannons, which were actually leftovers from the soviet era, were within visual range. He saw a few Commanches loitering just out of range of them, most likely waiting for his tank to clear them out.

"Main gun ready."

"Engine room, ready."

"Electronic systems, ready."

George started as he heard that last voice, remembering in the next moment that they had taken on another crewmember to help operate the extra equipment.

"Driver and related systems, ready. Lets go crew"

George put the tank into full gear, watching out of the corner of his eye as Amelia, the main gunner, aimed the Paladin's cannon at the closest Quad Cannon. They had a laser lock, but were not close enough to fire yet.

The big truck's four 20mm machine-guns swiveled towards them and began firing. At this range, most of the shots missed, but the few that did hit the tank made loud, metallic noises, causing George to wince with each shot that hit them. Finally, he heard a booming sound from their own cannon, and a single rocket-assisted armor-piercing shell fired from the Paladin's long barrel, hitting the enemy vehicle even as the next shell was being fired.

Fifteen minutes, two TOW missiles, and fourteen cannon shells later, they were the only vehicle left in the area, with three smoking shells where once had stood three pieces of deadly machinery. George sat back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, feeling satisfied that they had won without even losing a single piece of equipment mounted on the outside.

Amelia leant over him and hit a key on his console. He frowned, looking at his screen. "More orders?" He groaned, reading the words off his screen. Amelia grinned slightly and moved off to another corner of the tank, leaving him to work out what to do next.

He sighed, entering in the co-ordinates, and reading the next few lines. It was sent via ELF, direct from the Air Force Army's Command Center. They were to attack a series of Stinger Sites, also known to many pilots as "the pits" because of their design. Each site held, on average, three GLA rebels, toting RPG-12 shoulder-mounted grenade launchers. They had a reputation for being extremely effective anti-tank as well as anti-aircraft defensive sites, and because they were cheap to build, many aircraft and armored vehicles had fallen to the sites, which were ordinarily built in groups, sometimes numbering up to twenty sites in total.

He activated the PADS system on the tank, waiting for the threat detector system to come online before he hit the "unsafe" button on his console. As they approached the sites, George was tempted to release the Battle Drone and request for a replacement when it got shot down, as most tank commanders would, but he decided against it and powered up the microwave jammer instead, in order to prevent the stinger sites from reporting him to others via radio.

The laser sights locked onto the Stinger Sites with ease. Unlike the Missile Defender's module, where the laser sight required at least 50 metal on the target to stay locked on, the Paladin's laser could stay locked on almost any target, ranging from fabric all the way to solid rock.

As they approached within cannon range, the men inside the Sites began firing. The PADS system on the Paladin fired rapidly, taking down every single rocket-propelled-grenade in the first salvo. As the Paladin's cannon began firing, he engaged the TOW missile, firing it along the trajectory the laser was projecting. Another salvo and the site exploded in a shower of debris and rubble, leaving a "GLA hole," something that the GLA had designed to survive anything but direct hits from heavy weaponry.

He shouted above the roar of the cannon and the engine.

"Amelia! Take out the other sites first! They're going to fire again any second now!"

"The laser will handle it!"

"It's starting to overheat… Don't ask how, I don't know. Just fire!"

"There's a scorpion inbound, guys…"

The electronic warfare technician, hitting buttons at his console madly, made that last statement. George turned the tank to offer the thickest armor against the oncoming fire. He checked his radar display, which had only recently been added. In most Paladins and Crusaders, radar was omitted due to cost and maintenance. The technicians at the Air Force Army base had referred to the original plans for the Paladin, and mounted a radar suite similar to the one proposed in the plans on the Paladin.

"Scorpions down. I managed to disable his electronics."

George grunted, keying at his console again. All of a sudden, just as the Stinger Sites fired an extremely well coordinated salvo, the PADS system shut down, leaving them defenseless against the oncoming shells, except for 5 inches of BERP (Ballistic Electro Reactive Process) armor on their tank. He winced as the first few rockets hit home. He hit his "status" button, watching as reports scrolled in.

"Jammer is down, TOW is down," he yelled, seeing the crewmembers start to panic out of the corner of his eye. "Don't panic, the tac jets are inbound…" He tried to reassure his crew. The electronics technician powered up the stealth and organic life-forms detection suite. "There's a squad of Rebels coming in at 3 o'clock."

George hissed, as another stinger site fell under the Paladin's gun. The crew stood shock-still as sonic booms echoed overhead, loud even above the explosions and through the armor. Then, the tank shook from a combination of a few rockets hitting the tank simultaneously, and the massive explosions from the Aurora bunker-penetrating air-to-ground missiles. The Stinger Sites fell silent as the Auroras carried out surgical strikes on each site.

A last rocket hit the tank, and suddenly the tank began vibrating strangely. George looked at his console screen, as warning messages scrolled across his screen.

"Evac, _evac, EVAC!"_ George screamed, as the last message scrolled across: "Warning, fuel critical. Explosion imminent."

Amelia was first out, pushing the hatch open and diving for the ground below. The rest of the crew followed, with George jumping out just before the tank exploded in a relatively contained blast, with most of the explosion blasting upwards, away from where they sat. All US Army tanks were designed to keep secondary explosions to a minimum, as well as to explode upwards, away from any likely friendly casualties.

Every single crewmember had evacuated the tank safely, and George breathed a sigh of relief at that. He snapped up from the ground, remembering the last this he had heard from his electronics technician. He got up, about to order the crew to move out, when the GLA rebels appeared near them, an unruly mix of men wearing helmets and turbans, some even wearing the Chinese Red Guard's signature hat. Two of them wore Ranger helmets, and they all looked like seasoned veterans of the war. Hearing gunshots, George opened his mouth to shout, but before he could say anything, his world went suddenly black.

* * *

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 4

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Four**

* * *

_0730 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Sick Bay 6B_

George came to inside a small white room, on a bed, alone. He sat up, then fell back into the bed promptly when he felt a sharp pain in the side of his head and a slightly duller pain at the side of his chest. He lay there for a few more seconds before remembering what had occurred the last time he was conscious, and then glanced around the room.

The room was barren except for a few pieces of medical equipment, which he was attached to, mostly, and door directly in front of him. It was a typical USA self-maintained Barracks, known to pilots mostly as simply infantry housing. Ironically, the Barracks were far better equipped than just housing. They each had several special-forces kits, training courses, obstacle and firing ranges, along with medical bays, weapon repair facilities, several canteens, and occasionally a movie theatre, especially when the General-in-charge had a large budget.

George fell asleep again, wondering what had become of his crew, and going through the events of the last few days, thinking of how his dream to pilot a King Raptor might never be fulfilled.

* * *

_1520 Hrs, the next day, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Gym 2C_

Lieutenant Amelia Isard powered down the treadmill, panting. She stepped off the treadmill, with a slightly dazed look in her eyes. The day the Paladin had been destroyed was already a week ago, but the memories were still fresh.

She remembered the smell of blood, of gunpowder, the sound of AK-47s, of battle. She remembered hiding behind one of the other crewmembers, only to watch him shot at point blank range and feel the weight of his dead body against hers as he fell.

Flashback…

_The smell of blood was overpowering; the rebels were everywhere, shooting them down even as they tried to run. The Major had disappeared some time ago, possibly dead. There were only two members of the original 5-man crew left standing now._

_Amelia gritted her teeth, running as hard as she could. There was another burst of automatic gunfire, and the ground in front of her leapt up as if stung. She fell into the sand as she tripped on a rock, and the other crewmember fell over her._

_She watched helplessly as the rebels began to advance, holding their AK-47s ready but not firing yet. She whimpered, catching the shirt of the last crewmember and pulling him in front of her. He shouted out in surprise, and screamed as bullets hit his chest._

_The lifeless body fell on top of her, pushing her into the ground. She grunted, trying to get him off before the rebels got too close. The rebels were closing in at an alarming rate, and she heard laughter from several of them._

_Amelia was just about to give up when a soft "crack" sounded, and then another. She stared as one rebel fell, blood gushing from his face. Then another rebel, and another. Very soon, there was a pile of dead bodies where once had stood a squad of dangerous rebels. She grunted, then pushed the body off her, standing up to see who had saved her._

_A figure draped completely in camouflage netting approached her, a rifle barely poking out from the mass of light brown, designed to blend in with the desert. He stood still for a moment, then approached her, not saying anything. Her jaw dropped as she realized who had just saved her-one of the pathfinder scout/sniper elite of the United States Army. These men were trained even more rigorously than most other Special Forces, trained in urban, jungle and desert warfare. Trained to live and fight alone for weeks or even months, in any condition. Trained to kill before anyone could see them or fight a battle against ridiculous odds. It was not widely known, but they were excellent at suppressing Stinger Sites, and could even take out light vehicles, such as the Technical._

_Amelia looked around, stunned at the carnage, then looked back at the man, who was still standing silently. Then, she heard the roar of ground based vehicles, and looked to see what was coming. The vehicles composed of several Humvees and Ambulances, with a single avenger flying an RQ-11B "Watcher" scout drone._

_She turned back to thank the man, but by then he had disappeared, faded back into the desert. The rest of the events were a blur, what with the ambulances taking on the dead or dying tank crewmembers, Rangers from the Humvees checking each rebel body, and one ambulance taking her in, to treat the few superficial wounds she had sustained._

* * *

1920 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Canteen 1A (3)

Amelia sat alone at a table, nursing a beer. She was still shocked over what had happened, feeling survivors guilt every time she looked back to the events, which was almost every second of the day. She pushed the beer away, burying her face in her arms.

When she looked up, there was a man sitting directly opposite her, at the same table. He was tall, dark and weathered-not at all that bad looking. She didn't notice any of this, though. She simply saw the slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Feeling slightly upset that someone could smile when so many had died in such a short time, she looked away.

"Survivor's guilt huh?" the man asked, looking at her with that same cheerful expression. Amelia didn't reply.

"Sometimes, it helps to get back into battle. Do something other than sit around. The gym might help, but even that isn't exhausting enough most of the time."

At this, Amelia turned to face him. She looked at him quizzically, a silent question written in her eyes. The man chuckled softly.

"The first time, I was in Beijing, covert insertion to assist the red army against the GLA. I was with a few friends, mostly Rangers. We were stationed in a Civilian building, waiting for further orders.

"We didn't notice anything amiss until the first attack hit," he said, rather grimly. "Toxin Tractor appeared out of nowhere and hit the building with an anthrax blast. I didn't even know the Tractors could equip anthrax.

"Anyway, everyone was dead and only one person made it out of the building alive. Me. And that was only because I was getting ready to leave for a scouting mission already.

"I holed up in another building for a few days, quite dazed at what had happened. I eventually got up and carried out my mission. I never forgot, but I don't remember too much either."

Amelia stared at him. "I watched them die…" she whispered. He chuckled, leaning back. "I'm not going to try to tell you I had it worse, even though I did. But if it helps, I watched one of your friends die too."

He smiled, looking away briefly, then looking back at her. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been there sooner. I ran as fast as I could when I heard the explosion."

Amelia stared at him, faintly shocked. "You were… You are…You're the…" she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. He smiled faintly. "Yep. Pathfinder, Air Force Army"

"Thank you."

"For? I didn't do anything… exceptional…"

"For saving my life."

"Ah I see. Well, it's my job, and I certainly can't let a pretty captain like you just die."

"If you're flirting with me, knock it off."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, sounding slightly irritated. "I didn't expect someone who's feeling survivor's guilt to be averse to flirting a little."

Amelia blinked, then laughed softly, a smile creeping up for the first time in days. Momentarily, she forgot the pain, the hurt she felt. Then the moment passed, leaving her on the brink of tears once again. She shook it off, determined not to let this young man see her cry.

"So, I didn't catch your name." She said, more of a question than a statement. He replied, with a slightly amused look on his face. "I didn't throw it. Colonel James Logan, 15th Air Force Army scout and reconnaissance group, Pathfinder," he said, then followed up quickly with, "and your name is…?"

She smiled faintly, "Captain Amelia Isard, trained on USA 5th Air Force Auroras, currently posted to Air Force Army, no current assignment," she finished, inhaling sharply. "It's not often a Colonel is a field operative."

"Pathfinders have always been exceptions, even more so in the Air Force Army, where all combatants have a required rank of Second Lieutenant and above." Amelia blinked at this. "There's a combatant rank requirement?"

"Yes. We have extremely limited manpower due to the way the budget is used, that is, on expensive and powerful equipment. So, General Granger decided to put a few restrictions on who can enter combat. Only the best are allowed to enter."

Amelia blinked again. "Sounds like you're reading from a textbook, but…" she trailed off, with what was commonly called the thousand-yard-stare. The Pathfinder chuckled, then glanced at the door leading out of the canteen. "Walk out that door," he pointed, and then continued, "turn left, go straight past three turns, turn right, go up one flight of stairs, take the door on the left, walk down the corridor until you reach the second door on the right. Open it."

Amelia looked at him quizzically, but stood up anyway, not moving away from the table yet. The Pathfinder shook his head slowly, then said, "just go. You'll see why when you get there."

Amelia followed his instructions, counting each turn and step, finally reaching that particular door. The corridor was spotless, painted white all over. She pushed open the door, and nearly swallowed her tongue when she saw the severely thinned figure of Major George Cage, lying on the bed, hooked up to numerous pieces of equipment next to the bed.

He seemed to stir at the opening of the door, and she walked toward the bed, stopping at the foot. "Major…" she whispered, hardly believing that there was another survivor apart from her. She began to tear silently, staring at the Major still. He stirred again, and suddenly sat, looking straight at her. "Hello, Amelia."

* * *

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 5

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

_1936 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Sick Bay 6B_

"Major…" Amelia whispered again, as George stared at her, with a somewhat surprised expression. She looked back in incredulity, opening her mouth to speak but finding no words coming out.

The Major ran a hand through his hair, then quickly said, "Did anyone else survive?" Amelia blinked then shook her head, looking down at the floor. "Have you been re-assigned?" he asked again, frowning slightly. There was a tray of food on a small table next to the bed, which was as yet untouched. Amelia looked at it and gestured questioningly, while replying. "No, I don't think I'll be going anywhere anytime soon."

George nodded, looking at the tray. "When did this get here?" he muttered, reaching for it. He started on the food, but found he had no appetite after the fourth mouthful, almost throwing up on the bed. Amelia smiled, watching as the once well built man fell into the bed, apparently exhausted. "Take it easy, Major. I'll catch up with you when you're feeling better."

Amelia walked out of the door. She harbored no feelings for the man, except as a friend and commander, but the knowledge that he had lived was enough to add a slight skip to her step as she went back to the canteen to look for one particular Pathfinder.

* * *

_1545 Hrs, a week later, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Gym 2B_

George put down the weights, panting. He had put on weight in leaps and bounds since getting out of bed, four days ago. At first, he had been confined to his quarters mostly, simply resting and eating. But once he could get up and run without collapsing, he had frequented the gym so much that the guards on duty near it recognized him, despite the fact that a few hundred Rangers and Missile Defenders used it per day, not to mention vehicle crews and building staff.

He wiped the sweat from his face, and neck with a towel, not bothering with the rest of his upper body. The towel was of interesting design, colored completely light blue with the newest US Army logo on it-an eagle with its wings spread, and behind it a red-and-blue shield, with a sword thrust down the center.

George stepped out of the gym, headed toward the medical check-up rooms. He was scheduled for a check-up within the next five minutes, and he didn't want to be late for this particular one, as there was quite a high chance of him being allowed back into service with this one.

He reached the room, and checking the door number, stepped in. "Hello, Major. Please, take a seat." George sat; waiting patiently as the doctor looked him over. Finally, the doctor took a step away, jotted something down in a notebook, and then looked at George. "You're cleared. Perfect physical condition." George grinned, standing up. "Thank you, doctor. What are the chances I can get a flying duty?" The doctor looked at him and shrugged, then turned away.

George chuckled, headed back to the gym. "Hey Major," a voice called out from behind him. He spun on his heel, recognizing the voice immediately. "Hello Amelia."

"How did it go?" she asked, referring to the check-up.

"Perfect. I got cleared all the way up."

"Awesome. Have you been assigned yet?"

"No. How about you?"

"Well, I opted for a Pathfinder course, but apparently they don't let ladies do those jobs, so I'm joining the Rangers instead."

"Well. That's quite a big change from the Aurora."

"True. But I was only given infantry options this time. Besides, I don't really mind."

"It wouldn't be because of that Colonel, would it?"

Amelia blushed, then replied, "Well, maybe a little, but who's to say?"

"Have fun, Amelia. Oh, why didn't you go for a MisDef course?"

"I don't meet the minimum physical requirements…"

"And I thought that Rangers were strict."

Amelia laughed. "True. Well, this should be the last time we meet. I'm headed to some obscure base south of here."

"Goodbye then."

"What happened to 'good luck?'"

"I don't believe in luck. See you around, anyway. Was fun knowing you."

"Same here," she said, walking off. George looked at her for a moment, then, shaking his head, walked into the gym.

* * *

_0950 Hrs, 2 days later, Iran  
Air Force Army Main Base  
John Coleman Herbst Barracks  
Officer's quarters, room 18D_

George tore open the envelope that had been left on his bunk, reading quickly through it. He was being reassigned to an Air Force Base, most likely a King Raptor one. He was to be what was commonly known as a "replacement pilot." When a plane was shot down, more often than not Air Force Commanders didn't go through all the trouble to train another pilot. Instead, they just took the shot-down pilot and put him on stand-by, built another plane, and put the replacement in the plane.

He began packing the few personal belongings he had, stuffing them all into an Air Force regulation issue bag. He sat on his bed, thinking of how he would finally get to fly.

1232 Hrs, 4 days later, Iran

Air Force Army Main Base,

Air Force Base Zero-Five

Briefing room

"Okay, team, we'll be going on rotational patrol to secure this particular area." The Colonel standing at the front of the room circled a spot on the map.

"Go out in flights of two, knock down any targets you see, on the ground or in the air, and return to base. When the first team arrives at the site, the second team takes off.

"Once you land, get out, take a break, stretch you legs, whatever. Next two pilots-get into the plane, wait for the crew to clear you, then take off as fast as you can. The first team will probably be on their way back already, and so on. Intel says there are multiple Scuds inbound too, so take some ABMs with you. Any questions?"

George raised his hand. "Sir, what happens if the PADS overheat?" he asked, frowning as he thought back to the events that had happened some time ago. The Colonel looked at him, saying, "That hasn't happened as of yet, and I have no idea-ask the techs. Any mission-relevant questions?" he asked again.

When nobody raised their hands, he said, "All right, first take off at 1245 hrs. You know the rest."

George walked out of the room, his head spinning. He was going to fly in the King Raptor, the truly number one fighter in the world. He was grinning like a fool even as he grabbed his helmet and climbed into his plane, waiting for the first team to radio in. His wingman came alongside his plane and gave him a thumbs-up before climbing into his own plane.

His callsign was once again Angel One, and his wingman, fresh out of flight school, had been given the callsign "Angel Two" until they found a suitable callsign for him. "Angel one, this is Sierra. Reaching point. Over."

"Sierra, Angel One, read you loud and clear, over."

"Roger that, Angel One, make for point and visual clearance."

"Copy that. Over and out, Sierra."

George pushed his throttles forward, all the way into maximum military power. When he reached the start of the runway, he pushed it even further, into the AFB-3 zone. His engines lit up, and he roared off the runway. His wingman followed quickly, taking off just after him.

They circled the airfield once, then headed toward their destination of the day. Apparently, with the Air Force Army, tower clearance was only required when three or four aircraft were taking off simultaneously. George leveled his wings and pulled his throttle back to maximum military power, engaged autopilot to keep the plane level, then keyed his radio.

"Angle Two, Angel One. Any problems?"

"None so far. What's your status Angel Two?"

"Green. Ten minutes to contact."

"Copy. 2 high 3 low."

"Mix. 3 high 2 low."

"Roger. Formation break?

"Negative. Go for the Grinder. High then low."

"Copy."

They were nearing the target area by now, which was, in the grand scheme of strategy, a choke point which the GLA were attempting to use as an entrance into US territory. There were numerous Scud-B launchers some distance back, attempting to pound the US Patriot-C Missile Systems into submission, allowing the GLA tanks easier access to the US base. So far, the Air Force Army had taken minimal losses, with only four Humvees and two Patriot systems destroyed when the Scorpions and Marauders first charged in.

By the time there were any aircraft available to support the area, the GLA had pulled in dozens of Quad Cannons and even set up a few Stinger Sites. The Scuds had only recently arrived, thus making the air-to-air arming for the Raptors necessary.

The Patriots were busy attacking the seemingly endless stream of tanks, so the anti-ballistic work was left to the Raptors. Ordinarily, a King Raptor would simply fly close to the missile, letting its PADS systems destroy the missile. Unfortunately for the US, the GLA were using an unbelievable number of Scud launchers, and even the rapid-firing PADS that the King Raptors were equipped with could not compensate for the number of Scuds in the air.

The new Patriot-C systems were Surface-to-air or Surface-to-surface missile systems. Due to the fact that their missiles had to be so versatile, the maintenance and production costs of these systems were extremely high, thus forcing Generals to use them sparingly.

Just as George and his wingman reached the choke point, the other two Raptors turned to leave, flying at AFB-3. George looked at his threat radar. "Missile launch, 12 o'clock!" his wingman reported in, still maintaining course. George keyed his radio, speaking quickly. "Cleared to engage. Fire at will."

"Missiles away, going low," his wingman reported again, turning his Raptor in a tight turn. George squeezed off his last anti-ballistic-missile, then headed down too. He squeezed off both missiles, then turned for home, seeing another two Raptors coming from a different direction. "Angel Two, Angel One. Dump and form on me."

"Roger, Angel One, forming on left wing."

"Copy. Go to max AFB and head home."

"Roger. Take a look at 3 o'clock."

George turned his head to the right, looking at the ground. "Negative contact. What're you looking at?"

"Up high, dude."

A formation of four Auroras was flying towards the choke point, at maximum afterburner, approximately mach three. George stared, tears coming to his eyes as he remembered his wife, and her death. He watched as each Aurora dived to make its bomb run. With the added hydrogen inject and gravity, each plane accelerated to over mach six. They each released one deadly bunker-buster air-to-ground bomb, destroying one Quad Cannon each. It wasn't a lot, but it would make a dent eventually.

The Auroras turned back for base, climbing slowly at barely mach one. Once high enough to fly safely, they flew back toward their airfield at maximum fuel efficiency rate, which was, in effect, very slow for a hypersonic bomber.

George looked at his HUD, smiling a little. For once, something went right in his life. He smiled a little more as he nosed down for his landing approach. It was going to be a really good day.

* * *

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: I finished this some time ago but decided not to post it yet. I've been a bit lazy so the next chapter will definitely be slow in coming. :p I've finally gotten a review! In response to the question… Well, a smart opponent won't bunch up the Quads for an Aurora to splash kill all at once. And the Quads are lethal to all aircraft, especially the Raptors all the time and the Auroras on the way out from an attack. So kill them first, and so on and so forth.

If you were wondering about the word "Covert" in the title, there's a reason for it (not just cos it looks cool) but you'll have to wait and see I intend to stretch this out quite long with short chapters… On with the show then.

* * *

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Six**

* * *

_1935 Hrs, Iran_  
_Air Force Army Main Base,_  
_Air Force Base Zero-Five_

"Cleared for take-off, lane one."

"Roger. Weather?"

"Perfect for flying. Tower out."

George sat back in his ejection seat, looking calmly out of the canopy of his King Raptor. Despite the fact that it had taken slight damage from a Quad Cannon during the skirmish against the GLA, the fighter was in excellent condition, especially since the maintenance crews at base had spent hours fixing the damage done.

George hit max afb as he took off, then, instead of climbing, went low and pressed the flashing TERFLW button on his instrument panel. He was joined quickly by his wingman, then the next two Raptors from the same airfield. The four aircraft were all at terrain-following altitude, due to the nature of this mission. The four aircraft did a perfectly executed synchronized turn, then flew straight toward where intelligence had indicated was a small GLA detachment. They were joined quickly by eight Auroras, which were spread out evenly to avoid being hit by anti-aircraft fire fired at other Auroras. The Auroras shot ahead, disappearing quickly past the horizon. George keyed his radio.

"BREAKDANCE, this is Angel One, how do you read."

"Loud and clear Angel One, what's your current position."

"South of your position, ETM 2 minutes"

"Copy. Granger says wait till you're 1 min."

"We've got some time. Auroras have headed in. Reaching overtake point."

"That's kinda far don't you think? They'll get fried long before you reach."

"Can't help it. They have chaff and flares, let them use it."

"Damn it."

"ETM 1 min. you're go for attack run."

"Roger. BREAKDANCE out."

BREAKDANCE was today's callsign for the USA Specter Gunship assigned to General Granger. George looked at his radar and grinned. There was an extremely fast moving blue light dashing across his screen-the Specter in supersonic mode.

The Specter had a swing-wing design, offering maximum versatility in its missions but increasing maintenance costs thousand-fold. The Specter had been designated to take out the Quads that littered the area, while the Auroras were designated to attack the Stinger sites. The aircraft were coming from all over the place-north, south, east and west. George had heard a rumor that some of those stuck-up Nighthawk pilots were in this op too.

As the first flights of Aurora reached the target, the lead pilot said over the international GUARD frequency,

"Operation OASIS FIRE commencing, 1942 Hrs."

George smiled, then did a hard left with his flight, turning towards where his radar indicated there were a number of SCUD Launchers-today's primary target. He off-loaded most of his missiles, with one remaining. Quickly, he scanned for another SCUD, sighted one, and headed towards it quickly. He heard the soft "zapp, zapp" of his PADS working to defend his from enemy missile fire, and smirked a little as he watched burnt missiles fall away from his fighter. He pointed his nose even lower to ensure a solid hit, then watched as the SCUD launcher loomed up on his HUD. He squeezed off his missile, watching in satisfaction as it his the SCUD missile solidly, then pulled up and turned for home. He began climbing, not bothering to present a lower radar profile as the GLA base had been effectively obliterated, and if it hadn't, the Commanches would obliterate it.

George leaned back in his seat; closing his eyes and letting the autopilot take over with a simple push of a button. The autopilot could do landing and take-off, and the King Raptor system could even do evasive maneuvers, but most pilots preferred to use it for it's usual purpose-to hold course and altitude.

He sat up suddenly, hearing a warning "deedle deedle deedle" tone in his helmet. While the King Raptor's PADS usually took care of incoming missiles, if the computer sounded the tone it either meant he was being damaged, or worse, his PADS was malfunctioning. This time, it looked to be the former. He swore under his breath, doing a snap roll to the right and snapping on his oxygen mask, even as his Raptor passed the Auroras, two of which were smoking badly. He ejected chaff and flares from both dispensers, then did another tight turn to the left. He leveled out, and found that the tone had gone. He checked his MFD (multi-function display) for aircraft damage, and found that he had lost structural integrity in the left wing. Looking out of his canopy, he watched it vibrate dangerously.

He lowered the throttle a little, and the wing vibrated a little less. He yanked off his mask, swearing loudly as his computer started to "speak" again. "Warning-left engine fire" the computer, known fondly to all Raptor pilots as "bitching betty," spoke with an even, unemotional tone, informing him that he had just lost more that 160kN of maximum thrust, which was more than he could say for the normal Raptor's 155.69kN.

His King Raptor weighed more that 14,000kg empty, higher than than the normal Raptor's due to the upgrades the Air Force Army had stuffed into it. The thrust he had lost would make him much slower, effectively halving his speed and keeping him barely above stall speed.

He swore yet again, killing the left engine and bringing the right engine up to full military power. He tuned his primary radio to the emergency GUARD frequency, the spoke.

"This is Angel One on the high gauntlet, repeat, this is Angel One on the high gauntlet."

"Angel One, this is Guardian Sword, contact me on following frequency…"

George tuned his radio, listening to the person on the radio at the same time. Guardian Sword was the AWACS plane that was monitoring all the Air Force Army assets in Operation OASIS FIRE.

"Guardian Sword, Angel One, I have left engine fire and have lost structural integrity in left wing root. Please advise."

"Angel One, Guardian Sword. Divert to Air Force Base Zero-Twelve. They have the equipment ready."

"Copy that. Angel One out."

"Equipment" referred to fire engines and the like. No pilot liked to refer to emergency crash vehicles for what they were. George called up his map, the let his autopilot bring him to the base.

* * *

_2034 Hrs, Iran  
__Air Force Army Support and Logistics outpost_  
_Air Force Base Zero-Twelve_

Avengers speckled the outer edge of the base, and a Single King Raptor was in defensive air patrol over the base. Somehow or other, this base also had a single Laser Turret, something which General Townes, the "laser general" had budgeted and built.

As he turned to land at the only Airfield in the entire sprawling base-he had no idea why is was an "outpost" there were at least sixteen standard Chinooks and four Combat Chinooks here, along with a massive ground contingent consisting of Humvees, Avengers, Sentry Drones, among many other vehicles.

For the first time in his operational career, George allowed the autopilot to do the landing. Even as he made his landing pass, rather sluggishly, the Avengers tracked him all the way, although not "painting" him with their laser; he could detect their radars tracking him.

As his wheels touched the runway, the fire engine's hoses began tracking him, not squirting yet, as foam was expensive and dangerous, especially if used wrongly. George made it all the way to the hangar, then just as he was turning, the left landing gear buckled, crashing his plane into the ground and smashing the left wing off completely.

George swore, quickly popping the canopy open and scrambling out of the cockpit, even as the fire engines doused his plane completely in foam. The broken shell of the Raptor, almost in normal condition on the right but charred and blackened on the left, suddenly exploded, showering bits of composite aircraft metal all over the place, and miraculously, not hitting him.

George stared at his Raptor, now nothing but a smoking sheet of metal, which was already being towed away by the fire engines. Two aircraft, one tank-all in his first year of deployment. He turned, and walked towards the air force base's staff office, reciting through his mind his status of deployment and his request for immediate return to combat.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: Well. Finally. The next chapter. Which i decided to do with a depressing tone for some odd reason. Another thing-it's the crossroads of the story, so i hope whoever actually bothers to read this is nice and does a review. There isn't any "technical jargon" in this chapter, obviously due to the setting.

* * *

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

_1224 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Support and Logistics outpost,  
Air Force Base Zero-Twelve,  
Two weeks after the King Raptor Crash_

George popped the hatch on the training simulator. The past two weeks had been all but pleasant, comprising mostly of filling out accident-report forms and undergoing interrogation by Air Force Intelligence agents from the outpost's large (but under funded) Strategy Center. The Strategy Center, or just StratCen, as most of the army grunts called it, wasn't exactly a _strategy_ center, per se. It was more of a place where the "brass" met to discuss how the funds could be (un-) wisely spent. More often than not, it was the warheads that got funded. That is to say-the attacking power of the US armed forces.

This particular outpost, though, due to its mission in the grand scheme of things, had a StratCen that funded long-range offensive systems and sensor suites. This Strategy Center was also in the process of acquiring some chemical suits for its infantry, although a lack of funds had mostly halted all efforts at bringing them in from the USA.

George thought it was a terrible waste of money, building a StratCen here, since it had served only the purpose of being an oblong eyesore and had not accomplished any other purpose in its long stay in Iran.

Pulling off his helmet, he rubbed his eyes. Although there were plenty of things for him to do at this outpost (two fully-equipped barracks and a staff-based air base), he never actually bothered to use the cinema (completely free of charge); the gym (he used to exercise every day for two hours at least if he could); the pubs and bars (he never drank much anyway).

In reality, all George did was sit in the simulation chambers, waiting for eject and combat sequences to be prepared for him. He was annoyed by the way it had taken so long for his new orders to come. But then again, he was probably more of a liability to the higher-ups than an asset. He had been responsibly for the destruction of two aircraft and the Air Force Army's last remaining tank, after all.

He sighed, and made his way to the Air Base's canteen for lunch. The canteen was surprisingly well stocked for an under-funded combat outfit. Ten minutes later, he was sitting at a table with a plate of food and a glass of water. He stared at the two items as if they were totally alien to him. Finally, picking up a spoon, he dug into the mashed potato on the plate. He put it in his mouth, chewing the small chunks of "un-mashed" potato slowly, barely registering the taste.

_What is __**wrong**__ with me!_

George dropped the spoon and gulped down the water, trying to clear his head.

_I made it out alive, and nobody was hurt, much less killed. Well, if you exclude the GLA folks, that is. But nobody friendly to me was killed. I should be happy I don't have to risk my life for a while._

He opened his eyes, not even realizing he had closed them. In front of him sat a young man in a flight suit. Technically, George was young too, but not by pilot standard. He was probably ancient compared to this man here. The man was eating too; exactly the same things at George had on his plate. He looked up at George then began to speak.

"Major Cage. Pleasure to meet you."

George started, then realized the man had probably read his name from his own flight suit, which he was still wearing. Searching for a name on the man's flight suit, he found none, and that annoyed him. But not before he became a little suspicious. He didn't trust anonymous pilots.

"I'm sorry. Who would you be."

The man grinned, then took out a notebook from a sleeve pocket, along with a ballpoint pen.

"Who I am doesn't really matter-yes this sounds _lame_ I know but it's _necessary_. The reason I've come to see you is to make a deal."

"A deal." A statement, not a question.

"Yes, a deal. And here's the deal-you don't repeat a single word of what I will say in the next few minutes to _anyone_ and you get to live."

"Sounds like you came out of a comic book."

"Maybe. Then again, I might have come out of a video game. So is it a deal or is it not."

"Deal."

George spread his hands in a gesture of trust, then glanced down at his food. He held up a hand in the "wait" signal, grabbed his glass, and dashed to the water dispenser for a refill. When he returned, the man, whom George had begun to suspect was another StratCen spook, was already halfway through his meal.

George slid back into his chair and looked expectantly at the man while sipping his water. The man looked up again, then steepled his fingers.

"I'm sure you remember the incident with the flying bombs just before you were posted to Iran-no, no don't reply now I'm sure you will want to save your breath for later."

George did remember. In the business of the past month or so he had been so caught up with everything that he had almost completely forgotten how he had lost the first Raptor.

"Perhaps it would… Please you to know that we have more or less ascertained the location of the production plants for these… flying bombs. Unfortunately, the United States has not enough resources to attack this factory without compromising other theatres of war. It's not that we're short of funding-we're short of men.

"The way that the theatre commanders are throwing their aircraft at the enemy, it's impossible to save any downed pilot without compromising even more aircraft. As a result… Well, you know the rest."

The unspoken words were of the way the enemy would hunt and kill the USA pilots, who were often armed with not more than a wilderness survival pistol. Technicals had a fearsome reputation against the pilots, who could neither outrun nor outgun the light vehicles. George turned his attention back to the present, where the other man was speaking.

"We have recently acquired some rather… fearsome aircraft. Variations of the Stealth, to be exact. Not the big Spirits, no worries. I meant the F-117As… The expensive aircraft with the black paint scheme?"

George looked annoyed. "I know what a Nighthawk is. Get on with it," he growled.

"Very well. The truth is, I've come to recruit you, Major George Cage. If you accept, you will henceforth cease to exist. My background checks show that you have no family ties…"

"Yes. My wife was killed and the rest of my family…"

The young man stood. He tore out a sheet from his notepad and dropped it on the table. "Think about it," he said quietly. Then he stood and left, just like that.

George picked up the sheet.

_Canteen 3C 0600HRS __**SHARP!**_

George stood too, then headed toward his quarters without another word.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: Ok this may be cheating but i got an e-mail from my cousin. So here goes. It's pretty short, but chapter nine is in the works. Should be submitted in a few hours when i have the patience to sit down and type again.

I've also corrected some grammar in the previous chapters that Microsoft Spellchecked failed to detect (as usual)

* * *

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

_0600 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Support and Logistics outpost,  
Air Force Base Zero-Twelve,  
Canteen 3C_

"What do I have to do." The young man, who had informed George that his name was Jack, looked hard at George, who had just made the statement.

"What do you think." Jack leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers behind his head.

"I'm not entirely sure. I was trained to fight, not to do this cloak and dagger thing."

Jack stared at a spot on the ceiling for a few long moments, then finally replied, stanching George's growing temper. "Cloak and dagger stuff. If you accept, you'll have to eject another time."

George pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated. "I've ejected from two aircraft and a tank in just one deployment, and you want me to do it _again?_"

Jack blinked at this, then murmured something to himself. This only served to purpose or infuriating George even more, who was by now rather impatient with the young man.

"Look. Let me get straight to the point. You have two seconds to tell me where we're going. Or I'm out."

Jack shrugged. "Iran."

Sighing, George stood. "Right. Take me there." He looked challengingly at Jack, who simply stared back, stood, and pulled out a set of keys from his breast pocket. "Outside. You can't miss it. It's the only one of its kind here."

George snatched the keys away, then frowned, remembering his belongings in his room. As if reading his mind, Jack pulled out a small, boxy device and looked at a screen pasted on the front. "Your room has been cleared as of thirty-two seconds ago. Everything is with that… vehicle."

"What vehicle." George, by now was about to blow his top. How could these people just go through his things without his permission! They were personal belongings, not just any other flight kit…

"You're see, Major, you'll see." George stood up to go. Then, as if remembering something, he turned to Jack and murmured, "You do realize, of course, that I do not trust you one bit."

"Of course, Major, that should be expected, naturally." The young man had an infuriatingly cheerful look on his face as he too stood to leave. George turned, and without another word left the canteen altogether, headed for the main exit of the air base.

* * *

_0627 Hrs, Iran  
Air Force Army Support and Logistics outpost,  
Air Force Base Zero-Twelve,  
Outside the Main Exit_

George looked around. There was no vehicle anywhere he could see. He clenched and unclenched his fist, then fished out the set of keys the young man had given him out of his pocket. It looked like a set of keys to an ordinary automobile, complete with remote control. It did not look like it would access the dream machine that George had come to expect during the course of the conversation.

George studied the buttons on the remote for a moment, then hit one at random. A faint "thud-thud" sounded from somewhere above his head, and he startled as a shadow descended over him, darkening his vision completely for a moment till his eyes adjusted to the dark. He looked up after a moment or two, and his jaw dropped as he saw the machine hovering over his head. It was a CV-22 Osprey, something not commonly used in the desert, particularly since the Chinook was cheaper to use and had a reasonably large lift load to compensate for the speed.

The CV-22 was a tilt-rotor aircraft, which could transition between flight similar to a fixed wing or a rotary wing aircraft. It was completely sky blue, a change from its usual color of gray.

"Perhaps this guy is nicer than I thought," muttered George as he stepped aside for the Osprey to land. He climbed into the Osprey and was surprised to see no one inside. He had expected there to be a full crew in the tilt-rotor, and instead he found nobody. Uncanny.

He walked forward to the cockpit, and, finding nobody either, he settled into the single seat which had replaced the pilot and co-pilot's seats. Looking at the controls, he was again surprised to find that there wasn't the usual row after row of buttons and switches, but instead a single MFD and a control yoke. Fortunately for George, he was completely familiar with both pieces of equipment.

Powering up the MFD, he was again surprised when instead of the usual control interface, there was a list of movies. He selected one, slightly suspicious. He started as the plane shook, then relaxed again when he realized it was just the Osprey taking off.

He settled back into his seat, and tried to relax, and yet managed to remain quite tense for the rest of the journey.

* * *

To Be continued...


	10. Chapter 9

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

_1643 Hrs, Iran  
In an undisclosed location_

George stepped out of the Osprey, surprised when he saw no one. "Joke?" He muttered, then continued muttering, thinking he was going crazy from the stress when a layer of sand peeled back to reveal a hole in the ground. It was something straight out of a science fiction movie.

Or so George thought. A clean metal platform rose to fill the gap in the ground, with that same young man he had met back at the air base standing on it.

"Well. Looks like you made it here in one piece."

"Yes, so I did. You in-flight entertainment system needs working on."

The young man-whom George had decided to call "young man," instead of "Jack," as his name was, laughed and gestured for George to join him on the platform. George hesitated, and, seeing this, the young man shook his head and said, "It's perfectly safe, Major, there aren't any flesh-eating aliens down there."

"Much as it may seem like the next thing that's likely to happen," George muttered to himself, then stepped onto the platform despite his own misgivings.

Three minutes and a vertical drop later, George was standing inside an immense cave, which looked quite man-made, especially since the entire place was either concrete or metal. He stepped into the cave, which was lined with computers and other whatnot with people working at them.

"This is a hardened bunker," the young man began, startling George, who had almost forgotten his presence. The young man noticed his surprise, and, looking rather amused, continued with his speech.

"This entire complex is mounted inside a giant… 'Egg.' The egg, in turn, is mounted on a series of massive springs, which, as you probably know are shock-absorbent. We have auxiliary power sources inside that will activate immediately once external power sources are cut off. Enough supplies to last us two months at double full manpower.

"The entire place was designed to withstand anything but a direct nuclear strike." The young man finally ended and George gave him a quizzical look. "So. What's my place here."

Smiling, the young walked forward into the cave, or egg, as he had so eloquently described it not so long ago, and began speaking once again. "Apart from all this, we also have our very own air force."

George, who had followed the young man, stopped walking and frowned. "So you brought me here because… you don't have enough pilots."

The young man, who had noticed George's halt, stopped walking too and turned to face him. "Something like that. I doubt you'd understand."

"So… Is this place affiliated to the Air Force Army?" George asked. "Yes. This place is under the direct command of General Granger." The young man coughed, and pulled out a cell phone. Or something that resembled it anyway. "Keep this with you at all times. It's your identification and my means of contacting you. Lose it, you might lose your life."

George nodded grimly, watching as the young man walked away. "Sir? I have orders to give you a tour of the base." George turned to see the source of the voice-a young officer. Female, he thought, though he couldn't be entirely sure because of the hairstyle and dress style.

"By all mean, lead on…" George fell in with the officer as she (or he) walked away.

* * *

_1800 Hrs, Iran,  
Nine weeks later,  
Air Force Army Intelligence Underground facility,  
Briefing room_

"Major." The colonel standing at the front of the room addressed George as he entered.

"Colonel." Sitting down, George glanced at the screen behind the man. There was a map of the region displayed, along with some red and blue lines stretching in various directions.

In the past months, George had undergone intense physical and survival training, along with constant intelligence briefings that George referred to as "spy training." Not only was he much more muscled than he had be before being brought to the facility, but he was also much wiser (or so he thought)

"Gentlemen," the colonel began, as the last man sat at his place in the room, "This will be your one and only briefing for this mission.

"As all of you know, the GLA conducted a daring attack on United States soil not too long ago. We have… found the production plants. The enemy's facility is, in all reality, Chinese. The GLA imported some stolen technology into the region, and used it, along with anthrax and other toxins, to build deadly chemical suicide bombs.

"Fortunately for us, the plant requires power, unlike the GLA norm, where they assemble everything manually. We have conducted several raids on the facility, and yet have not managed to completely destroy the plant yet. So far, we have only managed to slow down or altogether halt production.

"As you can imagine, the GLA would be quite willing to rebuild, since this is a new weapon we have not found any foolproof defense against. Exploding the aircraft in the air is not the best option, since the toxins will spread out over the land and inevitably, affect a vast area.

"We've trained all of you in the arts of subterfuge, survival, and battlefield combat. Along with your flight training, this should enable you to infiltrate and disable or destroy completely the facility we have targeted. You will fly in along this route…"

The colonel pointed at one of the lines drawn on the map. George grimaced, and continued to take notes throughout the rest of the briefing.

* * *

_1800 Hrs, Iran,  
Air Force Army Intelligence Underground facility,  
Hangar bay 6D_

"Well. The Nighthawk." George cursed under his breath when he saw the plane he was to fly. He had hoped for a King Raptor or even a normal Raptor-and he got the Nighthawk.

"Too bad, then," he muttered to himself, climbing into the cockpit as a technician withdrew the ladder. The cockpit was of an odd design, with a huge backpack in place of the ejection seat padding, and the cockpit ejected out as one capsule. It was very similar to the F-111's ejection capsule, except that this capsule had wheels, a 20mm gun and a TOW missile launcher that would deploy after landing on the ground.

The TOW missile, which stood for Tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire-guided missile, had an immense range, was extremely precise, and rarely, if ever, failed to detonate or fire.

The 20mm gun was the M61A2 Vulcan, normally mounted on Raptors (though pilots rarely, if ever, used it, preferring instead to exploit their BVR (beyond visual range) capabilities.

George grinned when he saw the armament listing on his HUD, then, already fully strapped in, settled into the none-too-comfortable seat to wait for his take-off sequence.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	11. Chapter 10

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

_0240 Hrs, Iran  
37 kilometers the GLA secret base,_

"Double or nothing, Angel One."

"What's the bet, Warcat One?"

"That the enemy base hits at least one of our aircraft."

"That's pretty grim. I'll take it."

"Roger Angel. I'll get hit_ myself_ to win that double."

"Copy. Switching frequencies."

George leant back in his seat and shut off the radios. Normally, it would be illegal to do this, but with the level of secrecy that this mission had been placed on, George had no doubt nobody would hear of his infraction of the rules.

* * *

_0352 Hrs, Iran  
Over the GLA secret base,_

George threw his Nighthawk into a tight roll, desperately avoiding the rapid-fire 30mm anti-aircraft guns being fired from below. He leveled out, nearing his bomb run. He hit a button on his MFD, starting the countdown that would give him the time till he released his payload.

George hauled back on his stick, jerking the Nighthawk up in a tight climb. He swore, watching his MFD as the timer reset itself, even as another spray of tracer bullets shot past his nose. He angled for another bomb run, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

Two wingspans away, he could see the HUD lights from his wingman, who had already released his payload onto the enemy defenses and was working with him to fend off any defending forces as George desperately tried to release his vital payload.

He did a quick roll, then throwing subterfuge and stealth to the winds, he powered up his afterburner. The F-117, not normally equipped with an afterburner, began to creak a little under the strain of the extra power output. The moment the afterburners kicked in, his infrared signature more than tripled too, and his threat warning-computer made so much noise that he shut it off. His countdown timer ran out to five seconds, then he pulled a handle on the side of his cockpit, muttering to himself.

"Going to manual… Firing solution engaged. Firing."

George pulled the throttle down into maximum military power again, the jinked hard to the left, releasing his payload as he did so. Two AGM-69 SRAM nuclear missiles shot from the Nighthawk, heading straight for a group of nuclear power plants that looked suspiciously of Chinese design.

George breathed in hard from his oxygen mask, trying to calm down, when a bat-wing symbol appeared on his radar display. "Shit." He swore, reading the words next to the symbol. Class 4ZQ5Y AAA-tracking radar. Of Soviet origin. "Tell me you aren't a Quad." George growled, turning to evade the radar even as it began to chase after him. He sped quickly away from the area, circling around the radar this time.

He brought slowly brought his throttle up, and just as the first sparks of the afterburner came from his engine, the nuclear missiles he had launched detonated. The blast area wasn't as significant as he had thought it would be. But then again, it had only a five-kiloton warhead, equivalent to about five thousand tons of TNT or dynamite.

"Ready for covert operation," George said to himself, mockingly. He brought the Nighthawk low. At about 2000 feet, he leveled out and began to make minor alterations to the plane's course. Several seconds later, he took his hands off the controls and ran them through his hair. He powered up two displays on either side of his ejector seat, and waited.

His MFD blinked on, then displayed "_HOTAS disengaged._" HOTAS stood for Hands-On-Throttle-And-Stick, a marvelous invention, which allowed the pilot of a plane to control all systems necessary for combat without taking his hands off the throttle-and-stick.

George closed his eyes, still waiting.

* * *

_0400 Hrs, Iran  
North of the GLA secret base_

OPERATION: THUNDER BRINGER commences

George inhaled sharply as the Nighthawk went into a steep climb. So steep, that it stalled. And then, with a hiss of hydraulics and compressed air, his cockpit broke free of the bomber. The Nighthawk, with its airfoil rendered useless, toppled towards the ground, then exploded in a brilliant flash of exploding fuel and aircraft parts.

The cockpit, with George inside, deployed two parachutes, painted black so as to blend in with the night sky. George held on tightly to both sides of his ejection seat, silently telling himself that this ejection wasn't because of a failure.

The cockpit hit the ground several painfully slow minutes later, and George breathed a sigh of relief that he had not yet (or as far as he was aware of) detected. The cockpit slowly turned into an off-road vehicle, complete with a single 20mm cannon, capable of transferring between armor-piercing and incendiary rounds in less than a second, and a TOW missile tube. The TOW missile could be loaded with either HE (High Explosive) or AP (Armor-Piercing) warheads. Transit between warheads took about four seconds, which was critical in combat, so he had been advised to select his favored warhead upon landing. Reloading took about seven seconds; the launch process took twelve seconds, which gave him a good, but not excellent re-fire speed.

George picked the Armor-Piercing warheads for the TOW, and incendiary for the cannon. Finally, completing all his preliminary preparations, he pushed on the pushed forward on the joystick. The control method had taken quite a while for him to get used to, but once he had the basics laid down, the simulations were a breeze.

Quite soon, George drove past a GLA structure. Not a normal GLA structure, but an odd conglomeration of rocket launchers and machine-guns. The defensive structure (so George assumed) was obviously powered down, with its guns and rocket launchers all pointing toward the ground. It was most likely an automated structure, which had been on the power grid that he and his wingmates had wrecked so much havoc on.

George continued driving, mentally going through the various procedures that he would have to perform once he reached his destination. _Infiltrate, Attack, Exfiltrate. Survival is your priority. If completing the mission means certain death, you are to terminate the mission at once and head for the exfil point._

"Well, that can't be too difficult," muttered George.

* * *

_0436 Hrs, Iran  
Inside the GLA secret base_

George fired another round of incendiary bullets at a squad of RPG troopers. The GLA base was no longer cloaked in darkness. It was, instead, bathed in the bright lights of several fires, burning from various damaged GLA structures. George had rendezvoused with his wingmates inside the GLA base itself, all of them shooting at anything green and moving.

George's buggy had already blown a tire, due to a stray RPG round, courtesy of the GLA. As a result of the blown tire, George had quite some trouble keeping at the speeds necessary to maneuver through the base safely. The base had been built like a city block, making it all that much more difficult to negotiate, as almost all the major junctions were well defended.

Then, as George was deciding which way to turn, his MFD beeped, text scrolling across the screen. _Direct satellite uplink from USA Detention Center Intelligence Division 0699D. Please wait. _George waited. Three seconds of hard maneuvering later, the MFD displayed a map of the base. "Awesome." He muttered, turning so that his vehicle was aligned with the map.

_Two blocks away from the palace. I'll have to take a round route to avoid that palace. Four blocks down, right two blocks, left six blocks, left two blocks. Then I'll have to improvise._ George gasped as his headset started blaring. He ejected two flares, which shot outwards and then hovered for several seconds before falling to the ground.

The RPG round, which had been meant for him, detonated against one of these flares. George, cursed, then drove down the street and made the right turn. He was safe. Until the enemy caught up. Opening the canopy, George stepped into the suit of armor directly behind his ejector seat. Looking at it, he was reminded of a video game he had played some time ago. He racked his brains, trying to remember the name even as the armor closed in over him.

_HALO!_ George grinned at the memory. He had played for hours with his cousin, in maps with situations just like this. One man against a thousand. _Should be easy._ Or so George thought.

George erected a series of instant-set-up barbed wire and tank traps, effectively giving him another few minutes when the enemy ran into it. He dumped the rest of his fuel over the wires and tank traps, and placed a small remote detonator in the fire. He linked up his helmet's viewscreen to the buggy's camera, and set the buggy's self-destruct on remote. _Another speed bump_. George began to run, making good time.

About four blocks down the base, George checked his viewscreen. _Perfect timing_. The GLA troops and motorized had just arrived and were attempting to breach the wires. He hit the _detonate_ button for both the buggy and the detonator. The viewscreen showed static; then changed to display his armor's ammo and power statuses.

_Yep, just like a video game._

* * *

To Be Continued...


	12. Chapter 11

A/N: Well. I had a reply to some of the reviews in my last chapter but it conveniently dissolved into the Internet. Terrible. First off-

Maiorem, I haven't had the pleasure of playing the Shockwave mod. Hopefully I'll have the time to do so sometime in the future.

Fatdude-You'll have to decide the bit about the War Factory yourself… and you'll often find there's always money to wage wars… After all, _war is for the rich._

Six-I intend to do one in the no too distant future, although all I have now is a few sketches of what the story will be.

the mighty lu bu-Thanks for the support. It was pretty disappointing at first I'll admit, but the writing itself is pretty fun, I must admit.

Thank you everyone who read and reviewed. I hope this coming chapter isn't _too_ cliché. Until the next time, then.

-Moguler

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

0440 Hrs, Iran  
Inside the GLA secret base

George ran for all he was worth, occasionally checking behind him for pursuing GLA forces. He was about to make the left turn, which would allow him to go straight toward the facility they were targeting. Apparently, Intel said that the facility looked like a standard palace, except that there was a huge open space around it, heavily guarded and booby-trapped at various intervals. The open space had two functions. The first, to facilitate the huge underground factory. The second, to enable easier defense against a light guerilla attack.

Adrenaline rushed through his blood, giving him the extra boost he needed to run the last few blocks. The suit of armor was almost sixty kilograms. The only reason he was able to carry it easily was because inside the suit was a powered exoskeleton, which, when attached to his body, multiplied his strength at the joints by about twenty times his original strength. George had tried to understand the science behind it, but even after the three-hour lecture from the engineers, he hadn't understood how it worked.

He made a final sprint towards the facility, mentally congratulating himself on reaching there unharmed. Then, he fell. The adrenaline's effects began to wear off, leaving him feeling dismay, shock, panic and whole host of other emotions, all at once.

The lump of sand that had tripped him began to stand, and then it shed the layer of sand, leaving a tanned young man in a pathfinder's khaki uniform. George choked when he saw the nametag. _James Logan._ The rank, Colonel. The shoulder patch, _15__th__ Air Force Army scout and reconnaissance group_.

_I know this guy_. George picked himself up from the ground and then spoke.

"What was that for."

"You nearly stepped on a mine."

"I don't see anything."

The pathfinder, who George was trying to remember, raised his rifle and pointed it at the ground. His finger tightened slightly around the trigger, and he sucked in his breath to hold himself steady, then pulled the trigger completely.

At first, George thought the massive "_blam_" that he heard was simply the sound from the rifle firing, until he registered the exploding ground barely two meters ahead of him. He stumbled, even with the powerful exoskeleton aiding him. Then he remembered that pathfinder rifles were silenced and didn't make big exploding sounds. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

George looked suspiciously at the pathfinder as he donned his camouflage again.

"How did you know it was there."

"I'm sorry?"

"How did you know there was a mine lying in the middle of an open field!"

George's voice was rising. He could see the pathfinder stiffening. George didn't care. He could take this guy on, couldn't he?

"Open your eyes. There are markers over the mines."

George looked out over the field. The optics in the suit's helmet automatically focused onto each point he looked at. _Pretty cool technology._ Sure enough, there were small flags on various spots all over the field. _Why didn't I notice that before?_ Now that George knew where to look, he spotted virtually hundreds of flags._ Careless, wasn't I? I was even warned aforehand._

Then, without warning, the pathfinder's head erupted in a geyser of blood and gore. George dived into the sand, cursing his carelessness. He rolled a few times to his right, then glanced around, trying to spot his attacker. When he did spot him, his first reaction was horror. Then panic. Then he got up and ran toward the attacker-Jarmen Kell, a mercenary who had joined the GLA because of a shared contempt for the USA.

Kell was raising his rifle, taking aim at George. George knew he had only one try. Although the pathfinders boasted on knowing how to hide themselves and shoot better than Kell, George had heard stories from several ex-tank-crewmembers who had told harrowing stories of a single high-caliber bullet ricocheting around inside a tank and killing everyone inside.

George raised his right arm, and clenched his fist. A single copper slug shot out from a barrel mounted just over his forearm. It was a gun out of a science fiction book. A railgun. Specifically, it was the Air Force Army Engineering Corps Medusa Railgun Mk. III. It fired a single superheated slug of liquid copper. Deadly accurate, and its incredible range made for an excellent sniping weapon as well. The velocity of the slug held the liquid together, enabling it to punch through virtually anything, from light body armor to an MBT's front hull. In test fires, the railgun's slug had even managed to slice through a Paladin Tank head on, and emerge behind still fully liquid.

The railgun was even cheaper to maintain than a standard M-16, the standard rifle for the Rangers, which made up the mainstay of the US Army's offensive forces in the region. The only limiting factor was that a railgun cost almost sixty times a single M-16 assault rifle. Most Generals agreed that if the railgun was put into mass production, the cost could go down significantly, but so far only Granger had put the railgun technology into use, and even then, in very limited ways.

The slug punched through Kell's head, completely disintegrating the mercenary's head before he could even pull the trigger on his gun. The slug slammed into the ground some distance away. Kell's crouching position had made George fire downwards, resulting in the smoking crater he now saw.

George grinned inside his mask, then turned to the pathfinder, who was now most certainly dead. George suddenly recognized the man. He had been in the same barracks as him for more than two weeks. _How on earth did I forget…?_

Then, George remembered Amelia. _Is she still alive…?_ He looked up and down the pathfinder's body, his eyes alighting on a ring on the pathfinder's left ring finger. _Oh no… Amelia's going to be heartbroken._

George growled to himself, set his railgun on "_spray," _a function which lowered the exit velocity and temperature of the slug, meaning it was effectively a shotgun, firing hundreds of tiny copper balls all over the place. There were multiple explosions all over the field as mines exploded everywhere. George began to dash across the field, scanning for any more mines as he crossed, and, finding none, ran harder.

He had nearly reached the compound, when a squad of Technicals appeared from behind the building, headed straight for him. He raised his railgun, firing round after round. Just as he was about to fire at the last Technical, his gun overheated, refusing to fire. George ran straight toward the truck. _Perfect timing._

He jumped clear over the truck, catching the rear bumper as it passed. Digging his feet into the ground, he stopped the Technical clear in it's tracks, then jumped into the truck and proceeded to destroy the entire vehicle from inside out.

_Oh it's a wonderful night for a fistfight…_

* * *

To Be Continued...


	13. Chapter 12

A/N: Hey guys sorry i haven't posted in a long time... Been quite busy. I intended to stretch out this story much longer, but i think i'll wrap it up soon and continue with a sequel if you guys like the character and my writing. I'm not sure whether the whole story should be rated M cos of this chapter... But if you have a terribly weak stomach skip this one. You won't miss too much.

Thanks for all the reviews i got. ;) Really encouraging. If you're reading this and you like or don't like the story, drop a review and i'll be sure to get back to you. ;)

Maiorem-First of all, the railgun isn't entirely my idea. I merely took several concepts from several books and put them together to make this weapon. The exo-suit, though. I'll admit that was totally un-original. Those suits are everywhere. ;) Thanks for reading.

Everyone else-thanks for reviewing. Enjoy. This should be one of the last chapters. ;)

* * *

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

_0459 Hrs, Iran  
Inside the GLA secret base  
_

_One minute left._ George ran as hard and as fast as he could, the hydraulics on his suit running at full power. He neared the entrance to the pseudo-palace, tossing several smoke grenades as he did so, preventing enemy troops from shooting him effectively.

The HUD on his helmet indicated that he was running on the last 40 of his battery power, after which he would either have to find a recharge source powerful enough to charge the batteries that powered the suit; lug the suit around, providing some armor, although negligible compared to the way the powered BERP armor served him; or ditch the suit, which he was rather loath to do.

_Three seconds._ George grunted, and dived through the door of the pseudo-palace, or weapons facility. Once inside, he crouched and hunted around for something to hold. He found a wall-mounted lamp, and hung on to it tightly. Outside, a part of the mission that involved him very little was happening.

Several Spectre gunships had arrived, and were pounding the area with howitzers and cannon-fire. Then, the ground started shaking, and he heard the distinctive whine and explosions of "iron" bombs, more commonly known as freefall bombs, which were perfect for blanket bombing.

George felt the ground beneath him start to give way, and he ran down the corridor that now loomed up ahead of him. He checked his suit diagnostics, via vocal orders. _So far so good…_ Then he ran a search for any other suits that had been deployed around him. His HUD responded to his voice, displaying all the suits that were active anywhere from next to him to fifty miles around. There was one suit displayed. Next to it, the word "incapacitated," indicating death, capture, or unconsciousness. _Brilliant._

George ordered his helmet to display an infrared map of his surroundings, and a jumble of red, yellow, blue and black colors immediately assaulted him. Obviously his suit's environmental control was working well. He soon found the hidden door that he had been looking for, and, thinking that this was just like some silly action movie, he ran up to the door and threw it open. His battery systems showed 25.

Remembering his briefings, George began searching for good spots to place demolition charges, spots that, if destroyed, would bring down the whole building as well. Surprisingly, even after he had placed all his charges, not a single person had appeared to challenge him.

_Way too easy._ George found a room that looked to the administrative office. There were papers strewn all over the desk, which was placed strategically so that it could be easily reached from any corner of the room, which was rather large and messy.

George strode toward the desk and shuffled through a few papers. Unfortunately for him, the papers were all in languages that he did not understand. He began scanning them with the camera built into his helmet, sending the images via satellite to whatever detention or strategy center was hooked up to his helmet immediately. He had scanned almost twenty documents, when he heard a slight, barely audible "clink." He tossed the remaining papers on the table aside, finally seeing the booby trap that had been laid for him. On the table, were several grenades, all already starting to cook off.

_Careless!_ He berated himself, turning to run. If it came to the worse, the suit would protect him from the explosion. Then, the suit suddenly felt heavy on him, and the helmet displayed "battery 0. Goodbye." Then the heat, pain and the shockwave of a massive explosion shook him, throwing him against one of the charges that he had laid. The charge exploded, but too late to kill him, as he had already fallen to the ground.

The first charge, upon explosion, sent a signal to the other charges, telling them that it had been prematurely exploded. The rest of the charges exploded, and the building began to collapse. George struggled to pick himself up, and screamed as pain lanced through his entire back. His whole body began to ache, and he screamed again when a huge chunk of shrapnel buried itself inside his leg.

* * *

_An unknown time,  
At an unknown location._

George awoke from unconsciousness, and found himself on his back, in a room that looked very much like a meat warehouse. He tried to sit up, but fell back again when the pain became too much. It was only then that he remembered the incidents that had occurred in the GLA secret facility. No doubt he had been captured, since if the US Army had retrieved him he would be in a medical facility and not in this strange place.

A door behind him swung open, and the young man or Jack as George had begun to know him, stepped into the room. Jack began to speak, not in the semi-friendly English that George recognized, but in an unknown language, although it sounded vaguely familiar to him. At once, a door opposite the side Jack had stepped out from swung open, letting in light, and a squad of rebels.

"Jack…" George intoned, struggling again to get up.

"Shut up, infidel."

"What are you doing?"

"My job. Now shut up."

The rebel squad approached George warily, then, seeing his condition, laughed and placed their rifles on the ground. "You'll find that these GLA enjoy Americans… very much," Jack said, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, accompanied by George's screams.

At first, the rebels had done nothing more than kick and punch him around, and when it became obvious that George wasn't going to die so easily, picked meat hooks from off the chains that were hanging from the ceiling and made several deep gouges in George's body.

The screams never ended.

An eternity later, the rebels seemed to have lost their use for George, and laughing, picked up their rifles and exited the room. George curled up into a ball and willed himself to sleep. But sleep did not come easily, as the pain from his wounds kept his attention far too well.

Eventually, George lapsed into unconsciousness, mostly due to the blood loss, telling himself that he had not failed him mission.

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

Oh yes, Lu Bu you're with the military in the middle east? How does this compare?


	14. Chapter 13

A/N: I was under the impression i had uploaded this a long time ago... Anyway. Sorry about the long wait guys i had a looong holiday. Had to finish this story as quickly as possible since i'm running out of time for any writing... Enjoy the last chapter, guys.

Ah and if anybody wants to use my characters or idea in their stories, you're welcome to do so. I won't be needing them for a while...

* * *

**Angel One: Covert Ops**

**Chapter Thirteen**

An unknown time,

At an unknown location.

The torture continued for months, with the GLA always patching him up and allowing just enough time to heal before attacking him again. George was a psychotic wreck; often tearing up old wounds just so that they would take longer to heal and the rebels would not attack him again. He wondered why the GLA bothered to feed him and waste medical supplies on him, when there were so many other US Army troops out there.

George often felt despair rise, threatening to engulf him. He sometimes contemplated escape, but the one time he had tried he had be captured, dragged back and attacked so furiously that he never tried again. Then one day, even though he was fully healed, the rebels did not come.

At first, George felt relief at this, then fear. What if the GLA was planning something even more grim for him? US troops all over the world knew of Dr. Thrax's fearsome reputation, both fearing and hating him. George was about to rip open yet another of his healed wounds, when he heard the door open. _So they did come after all…_

But it was not the rebels. There, in front of George, stood the young man that had brought George into the cybernetic infantry device program in the first place. George stood, and felt adrenaline coursing through his veins. "_Traitorous bastard!" _he screamed, flying at the young man, also known as Jack.

Jack didn't defend himself, and, seeing this, George stopped short of hitting the man. "Defend yourself," George's voice was nearly a whisper, dripping with malice. Jack, who had been looking at George up to this point, shook his head, then, turned around, and facing the door, began to speak. He didn't sound like the cocksure, arrogant man that George had met in the Air Base canteen all that time ago. He had the sound of a broken man. One who had been taken apart and put back together all too hastily.

"George… I'm terribly sorry. When the Air Force Army started this… disgusting thing… I never thought it would go this far."

"The what…? This whole thing isn't some crazed GLA idea?"

"No. You see, the Army… Doesn't like its operatives to live for too long once they know big secrets. Like the ones you know, for example. And when they want to strike deals with the GLA… This is what they offer."

George choked. The United States was _against _this was it? That was what he had been taught. But Jack sounded so convincing… It was the only plausible explanation, wasn't it? If Jack had been a traitor then he would have defended himself. Wouldn't he?

There were so many questions running through George's head, yet he only had the courage to ask one. "Can you… help me out of here?"

"Possibly. But where would you go? The Chinese are the United State's allies."

"The GLA. They don't deal in treachery."

"They tortured you. Do you think they'll take you in?"

"They might."

"Chances are probably not."

George sat for a moment, mulling over this. Eventually, he turned back to Jack and said, "How do I know that you aren't _really_ a traitor and are saying all this just so that I'll go over to the GLA willingly?"

Jack stared at the ceiling, seeming to think this over. Finally, he turned to face away from George and shrugged. "I'm not too sure myself."

George frowned at this. His options were at best, grim. Then, finally deciding on his course of action, nodded. "Yeah, I'll go over to the enemy. Perhaps like a traitor."

Jack frowned. "Well, not exactly like a traitor. You've been abandoned, haven't you?"

George sighed, and then stood up, looking quite weary. "Whatever. If you're going to get me out of this place, it had better be soon."

Jack smiled. Not a pleasant smile, though. It was more of a predatory smile. "Good. The GLA will be cracking this place open in maybe a few hours."

1200 Hrs,

An unknown location,

George squinted in the harsh desert sunlight. A few hours ago, he had been simply taken out of the compound he had been held in. Just like that. And now, wearing only what he had been wearing for the last month or so, (He had no idea how long he had actually been away from the sun) he was toting an AK-47 and marching resolutely on a small USA infantry platoon.

The rebels around him were similarly equipped, although some carried additional equipment, such as flashbang grenades, (George thought he saw blood on some of them) flashlights or even US Army survival kits.

The march lasted about an hour or so, ending in the Rebels easily ambushing the US troops. The Rangers were caught unawares, and George, quite new to infantry warfare, dashed after a fleeing Ranger, hoping to score a kill in the hopes of gaining points with the GLA infantry.

He caught up with the heavily laden Ranger quite quickly, and tackled him to the ground. The Ranger turned around, and attempted to hit George with the butt of his rifle. Then, with both the Ranger's M-16 and George's AK-47 in mid-air, they froze. George gasped. "Amelia." The Ranger, as it turned out, had been a woman. "George?" She had a questioning look in both her voice and her eyes.

"Go. Run. Quick." George quickly slid off her, and stood to let her run. Amelia stared at him for a full minute, then, dropping all her equipment and suppressing a sob, ran across the open desert. Another GLA recruit suddenly appeared next to him. "What did you let her go for, George?" The man raised a rifle to his shoulder. A Pathfinder's sniper rifle. With a sudden surge of recklessness, George swung his rifle, catching the man on his temple. George tore the rifle from the man's unconscious hands and fired a single bullet, point-blank, into the man's skull.

George stared at the man for a full minute, then dropped to his knees. _What have I become? _As the other Rebels gathered around him, George looked up at them, then stood.

"He was a traitor," George explained slowly. "He was trying to kill me."

The other Rebels cheered, some of them kicked at the dead man's body. Then one of them, a veteran of the war against the USA, clapped him on the back. "Well done George, very well done."

George frowned. "No. George Cage is an American name. I am…" George paused and looked around at the other Rebels. Then, hoisting the sniper rifle into the air, he shouted. "_I am Jarmen Kell!"_ Almost instantly, George's voice was drowned out by the loud cheering of the other rebels as they hoisted him into the air.


End file.
